Boredom and Bad Dreams
by M.E. Johnson-McNeil
Summary: John manages to convince a bored Sherlock to come to the museum with him. But will that trip to the museum turn into something more for the doctor and the consulting detective? (Johnlock, M for suggestive themes and language)


***Hello lovelies! Just a small little piece to see if I can't get the creativity flowing again. It's Johnlock. Hope you all enjoy! P.S. Sorry, for saying that people who attend Oxford are pompous, that's not my opinion at all! Again, enjoy!**

 **Boredom and Bad Dreams**

"Sherlock, come on, you haven't eaten for two days. Eat."

"I don't want to John. I'm _bored_."

"How on earth can you be bored?! We _just_ finished a case!"

"Quite easily. That case was much too simple. You're going to have to find me better cases because that drivel that you gave me was appalling."

John sighed. "Why did you seem interested by it then?"

Sherlock sat up on the couch, leaning forward, fingers pressed together. "Because I figured it was better than you telling me that they were an old friend of yours from secondary and all of the other nonsense you would've told me. I could have told you the moment that he walked through the door that yes, his wife was cheating on him and that yes, she had been poisoning his morning tea. But you would have insisted anyway that I investigate it to make sure."

John stood there, mouth agape. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Again. Bored."

"B-but...I…" John struggled to find the words, staring at Sherlock sitting on the couch, that satisfied smirk on his face. "Fine. Fine! You're bored, I'm off of work. Let's go and do something then."

"Like what?" Sherlock scoffed. "Go to the park and gawk at all the females that you can't seem to manage to entice? Go to the cafe and sip on coffee? No thank you, John. Your idea of going and doing something bores me."

"Actually, I was thinking about going to the science museum. They're having a wonderful exhibit about body decomposition that I wanted to look at." John noted that Sherlock's eyes seemed to light up. "Also, I believe they were doing another exhibit on blood spatter."

Sherlock got up from the couch, grabbing his coat and scarf. "What are we waiting for then? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

John chuckled as Sherlock took off down the stairs. "Well, at least that got him out of the couch. Let's see how long it will keep him entertained."

John followed Sherlock down, hoping and praying that things would end a bit better than they normally did.

* * *

"I mean, honestly John, if you're going to run an exhibit on blood spatter, you should at least know what you're talking about."

"That doesn't mean that you need to point out _everything_ that they've said wrong! He is an expert after all."

"Expert-in-training," Sherlock drawled as they walked down the street. "He's not old enough to have even graduated. He's still in university for it."

John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the dirty looks that people were giving him. "How in the world did you even know that?"

Sherlock sighed. He'd forgotten how unobservant John could be when distracted. "Simple. Behind the display was a knapsack, no doubt used to carry his books to and from classes. Inside the bag were books for school, one on criminal investigation, one for an advanced chemistry course, and another for forensic science. Also, judging by his demeanor and pomposity, he attends University of Oxford. This was no doubt part of one of his classes. He didn't even seem to be enthused teaching it, which tells me that forensic science isn't a passion of his and he should perhaps be a rubbish collector or, even better, a detective inspector for New Scotland Yard. He'd fit in with Donovan and Anderson, that's for certain."

John continued to stare at Sherlock in shock and recoiled away when Sherlock reached out to shake him. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. You got all that from a glance?"

"No, I got that from observing the world around me, something that you seem to be incapable of doing when there are distractions in the room." He patted John on the cheek patronizingly. "Don't worry, we'll work on it. Shall we go back to the flat and eat? I'm famished."

John followed behind Sherlock, still in disbelief at his deductions. He supposed that the time at the museum could have gone a lot worse than it did. The doctor watched as Sherlock walked ahead of him. He'd spent almost a year with the man and he still wasn't able to understand him. He was so alien, so _unnerving_ sometimes with how he could deduce things with a simple glance. But it was also...brilliant? Awe-inspiring? Thrilling?

' _You mean like the kind of thrill you get when those blue-green eyes lock onto yours?'_ John shook his head, growling at the voice that had decided to pipe up in his mind. Sherlock glanced back at him curiously before looking straight ahead. _'Oh, go on John, tell him how you feel. You've liked him since the first day you've met him. And not in the platonic sort of way either.'_

"I'm straight," John grumbled under his breath and Sherlock looked down at him as they waited at the crosswalk, raising an eyebrow.

"What was that?"

"I said I've got to fix my jacket," John replied quickly. "It's...it's not on straight."

"Looks fine to me."

"Well, it feels funny to me. Too tight in the arms."

To his surprise, Sherlock turned to him, grabbing the front of his jacket, tugging at it. "There. Better?"

John nodded, feeling the rush of blood to his cheeks. "Yeah. Yeah, better. I could've gotten it myself."

"I know. Figured I would lend you a hand though. Let's go. It's cold out."

John once again trailed behind Sherlock, struggling with the thoughts running through his mind. What was wrong with him?

* * *

John opened his eyes slowly. He'd heard something and a shadow in the doorway confirmed his suspicions. Instinctively he went for the gun he kept in his bedside drawer before he realized who it was next to his bed. John turned the light on, revealing Sherlock in his doorway.

"Jesus, Sherlock, I could have shot you." He looked closer at the man, seeing the fear in his eyes. Immediately he was alarmed. "What's wrong? What's happened? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, fine. Thought...thought you might be up. Erm...I…"

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"Nothing. Wanted to check on you is all."

"It's two in the morning. Quit lying to me. Something's obviously wrong with you. What is it?" Sherlock mumbled something and John furrowed his brow. "Speak up, I can't hear you."

"I had a nightmare, John."

"A nightmare?"

"Yes. I've had them since I was a child," Sherlock confessed, still standing in the doorway. "I...didn't particularly care for this one. Do you mind if...if I…"

John looked at him, confused. "If you what? Sherlock, it's late. Spit it out."

Sherlock straightened up a bit and John finally caught a glimpse of the pillow tucked under Sherlock's arm. "Can I spend the night with you John? Please?"

John sighed. He knew what it was like to have horrible dreams. He also knew that he wished someone had been with him when he'd had his. John shoved his pillows to the right side of the bed, patting the left. "Come on. But one night only, alright?"

Without a word, Sherlock crossed to the bed, setting up his pillow. He fluffed it, patting it gently before crawling under the covers, rolling onto his side to face away from John. The doctor shook his head, reaching over him to turn off the light. He stared up at the dark ceiling, occasionally glancing over at Sherlock's form.

"What did you dream about?"

"Leave it alone, John."

"No, what did you dream about? It helps to talk about it."

"John. I said leave it alone."

"The way I see it," John said, propping himself up on his elbow to stare at the back of Sherlock's head, "you are a grown man sharing another grown man's bed. Come on. Tell me."

Sherlock flipped over quickly and John found his heart begin to race as Sherlock's face hovered over his. "Do you really want to know?"

"I, erm, this is a bit awkward Sherlock."

"Do you or don't you?"

"I do, but could you back up a bit? You're in my space."

Sherlock smirked. "You don't mind a bit. Stop lying."

"Yes I do mind Sherlock."

Sherlock backed up a few centimeters, but John was still painfully aware of how close Sherlock was. "I dreamed of you."

John looked at him incredulously. "Whatever for?"

"I dreamed that you were killed in front of me. It was...unpleasant."

"I don't...I don't understand. Why me?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling back over onto his side. "You never observe the world around you when there are distractions. How disappointing. Good-night John."

John poked Sherlock in the shoulder. "You can't just say something like that and then go to sleep. That's not right. Sherlock? Sherlock, what do you mean by that?"

Sherlock continued to ignore him and John sighed, laying back down, staring at the ceiling once more. What on earth had Sherlock meant by that?

' _You idiot,_ ' the voice in his head that sounded strangely like Sherlock said. _'You missed your chance to tell him how you feel about him. Stop denying it John. Nearly an entire year and you still refuse to recognize that you view him as more than a colleague or a flatmate. I mean, you two are sharing a_ bed _for goodness sake. Tell him!'_

John rolled over onto his side, reaching out to touch Sherlock. He found that his hand was shaking and that his throat had gone dry. As quietly as he could, knowing that Sherlock was more than likely asleep again, he edged closer until his torso was pressed against Sherlock's back. He leaned down to his ear, licking his lips. What was he going to say?

"Sherlock," he whispered, brushing a dark, messy curl away from his ear. "I doubt you're even listening, but...I'm glad that you're here with me now. I...this is going to sound ridiculous, but I've liked you for a while. I know, me, a straight man liking another man who obviously has no interest in anything unless it's dead and lifeless on the ground." John hesitated. "But...I do like you. And I wish I could tell you to your face. I don't want to put our friendship in jeopardy though, which is why I'm whispering it in your ear at three in the morning. I hope you-"

John was surprised when he found himself on his back, Sherlock on top of him, gripping him by his arms. He opened his mouth to protest when Sherlock's lips were against his, kissing him passionately. He melted at Sherlock's touch, his heart racing in his chest as his fingers buried themselves in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock pulled away, staring down at him, a smug smirk on his face.

"What...what was...where did that…?" A look of realization came over John's face. "You didn't really have a nightmare, did you?"

"Nope."

"So that was all a ruse to do what exactly?"

"Get you to admit to yourself that you are not straight. At least not when it comes to me."

John let out an angry huff. "Why do you always have to be such a git sometimes? Why couldn't you have asked me to-?"

Sherlock was kissing him once more, silencing him. Again, John felt as if he were turned into putty at Sherlock's kiss. The consulting detective pulled away, giving him another smirk before getting out of the bed, grabbing his pillow.

"That's it?" John wrinkled his nose at how needy his voice sounded. "I mean, you waltz in here, take up room in my bed, keep me awake and then waltz back out?"

"Pretty much." Sherlock began to walk out of the door before poking his head around the corner. "Oh. The feeling is mutual, John. You can come down to my room if you'd like. Or you can stay up here. Your choice."

Sherlock headed back down to his room and John hesitated. But his hesitation was brief as he launched himself out of the bed, following Sherlock to his room. As he got to the room, he closed the door, finding Sherlock already in bed.

"Still bored?"

"A bit."

"Well," John said, sliding into the bed next to Sherlock. "Let's see if we can't remedy that situation, shall we?"


End file.
